Dear John
by TouchedBytheAngel
Summary: Part 2 of the Addicted to You Series. He sits in his little room all day, not making a sound other than an occasional grunt of frustration or cough. They gave him a notebook and a pen, just as he asked, and he asks for nothing else. The man sleeps, eats barely enough to keep him alive, and he writes. He never stops writing.
1. Chapter 1

**Part One: **

_And I've been keeping all the letters,_

_That I wrote to you._

_Each one a line or two;_

_I'm fine, baby, how are you?_

_And I would send them,_

_But I know that it's just not enough._

(-Home, Michael Buble)

oOo

Dear John,

The walls are the wrong shade of blue.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

My head hurts and they won't give me anything for it. Apparently a history of drug abuse and an insufferable older brother is enough to condemn anyone.

-Sherlock

oOO

Dear John,

I dreamed last night that you came and got me out of here. And then we went to court and you proved that I wasn't guilty, even though I am, and we got to go home.

I miss home.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

There's been a stabbing-I heard it from this Mary woman. She's pretty, John. Maybe if you hadn't met me, you could have fallen in love with her instead. And none of this would have happened. But John, I swear to you, she could never have loved you anywhere near as much as I do.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I'm sorry I complain so much. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I let you die. I'm sorry you'll never see these letters. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry

oOo

Dear John,

The sunlight filtering through the linen blinds in the eating area reminds me of your hair when the sun was on it.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I've now been here two months. They added fresh fruit to my diet on a daily basis, and I'm allowed to go outside sometimes now. It's not nearly cold enough to be January; they didn't even put up a Christmas tree. Which was for the best, actually, because the staff here smokes so much that they might end up burning it down along with the rest of us anyway. But then, I might have died. I won't now.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I'm sitting outside to write today. Mycroft sent me a scarf for Christmas; it's a deep blue cashmere. Why does everything relating to me have to be _blue? _It's always the wrong shade. There's a fence all around me, (Well, it's around the facility,) but I can see things through it. I saw a squirrel carrying away a nut and it made me smile a little. It's something you would have liked; small, but to the right person, of infinite importance.

Much like yourself, John.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I woke up this morning to being shaken by Mary. Apparently, I was screaming.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I miss the Pirate. I hope it's not getting rusty.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I haven't written in two months. I wanted to. But I just couldn't. I'm sorry. The overseer is having an affair with the janitor's sister and the blueberries the kitchen is pulling in have an odd new pesticide on them. It's warming up, too; spring is in just a few days.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

Victor came to see me today. He has a girlfriend now and it's pretty serious. I think he'll ask her to marry him at the end of the summer. Only at the end because he's scared of her rich father and doesn't want to seem too quick about it. I remembered when you'd first met him and I wished you were there. Victor's hair has lightened and it's almost like his eyes have, too. But they're still the wrong shade of blue.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

Happy Anniversary.

Yours,

Sherlock.

oOo

Dear John,

I remembered today that you have a fondness for seashells. Mary was wearing one on a necklace-a cockleshell on a thin golden chain. Her first cousin obviously has a secret crush on her that he's trying to hide miserably. Why did we never go to the beach, John? I always meant to take you; I could tell you wanted to when we talked about the beach. But somehow I kept putting it off. Isn't it silly how people do that, John, and miss chances they had in their grasp? Why can't we just _do _things while we can? And look; I'm starting to sound like a junkie philosopher.

You would have laughed at that.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

Mycroft apparently has a woman who keeps our apartment clean. It's almost nice of him, but completely pointless. I want to go somewhere else; Alaska, perhaps. Or London, even. Somewhere where no one's ever heard of our names and I could keep you to myself in safety. Harry's dropped by four times now; she seems certain of something but I'm not entirely sure what it is. But you would be happy to know that she's better now. She really is. Her cheeks have filled in and I haven't smelled alcohol on her once. Of course, she may have a relapse. But we'll, how shall I say it, "hope for the best"? I feel certain it's what you would do, but I'm not you, John. I don't have your sense of optimism…or your faith. You had faith in me. Why? I didn't even have faith in me. Sometimes I wonder if I ever have. All I did was hurt you over and _over _and you wouldn't leave. You're so stubborn. That's very you; I suppose. It took you two days to finally let go and I

I would have done anything to make you hold on permanently.

-Sherlock

oOo

oOo

Dear John,

I think I'm getting sick.

-Sherlock

oOo


	2. Chapter 2

**Answers:**

**Accidental Scarlet: *Pats back***

**soBeautifullyObsessed: Aw, thank you so much for reading it!**

**Bulletproofsince1999: I know, I know...**

oOo

**Part Two:**

_And I find it kind of funny, _

_I find it kind of sad;_

_The dreams in which I'm dying,_

_Are the best I've ever had._

(-Mad World, Gary Jules)

oOo

Sherlock dreams. He dreams of John and Mycroft and the apartment and The Pirate and his childhood. He dreams of his old dog Redbeard and fevers and going through his school work. Fever makes shapes dance bright behind his eyelids, and they never leave him alone. They're not _interesting _anymore; it's torturous and slow, and he hates it to his core.

He's vaguely aware of someone constantly trying to force water past his lips. It chokes him but he manages to swallow just enough. Just barely.

_I miss you, _John whispers.

Redbeard stares at him accusingly.

_You're a very stupid little boy, _Mycroft mutters in disgust.

_Give up, _Moriarty whispers.

Sherlock wants to cry, but he can't. His tears have all been burned up from the heat raging inside of him.

His apologies are as heavy as the pages of his book-weightless.

_You're so beautiful, _John smiles.

_So stupid, _Mycroft frowns.

_Why bother? _Jim sighs.

He misses peace. He misses John. He misses sleeping without dreaming the same thing over and over. If it were up to him, Sherlock would never dream again.

Mary brings him food, her eyes worried, but he either chokes on it, or manages to get down barely enough for him to survive. He is noticeably thinner.

oOo

Sherlock is floating on a dark sea of doubt. The reality of everything is compromised; he can no longer tell what is his fever and what is actually there. He wonders if he'll ever wake up; sometimes, he doesn't want to.

But he does. The world brings Sherlock Holmes back and seems determined to keep him there. It's a week and a half since he lost full consciousness, and slowly, it comes back.

He's sipping water on his bed when Mary comes in. She hands him his notebook, her blue eyes worried.

"Your brother, and Miss Watson, and Mr. Trevor and his fiancé all came in," she says. "They were worried."

"Hm," is his only reply. His long, slender fingers close around the notebook. He glances at it, and looks back up at her.

"Did you read it?"

"Of course not," she smiles.

"Odd, your left thumb says otherwise."

"My what?"

"Traces if ink with the same smudgy oil base as that of my pen. Plus the fact that your voice went up a quarter of an octave signifying that you are defensive, my final conclusion is that you read to page sixteen before coming in here. I thought the two minute lateness was odd, and now I know its cause."

Mary stares at him as she reaches to pour him some water. "I haven't-"

Sherlock grabs that hand; it sloshes and Mary gasps.

"Firstly, as you can plainly see, lying is useless. Your own body betrayed you. Secondly, don't _ever _touch this book again." His grip has weakened from his sickness but his voice still lowers menacingly. "These letters were only ever meant to be read by one person. Any idea who that might be?"

"But," Mary swallows, "John is dead. He died."

"That doesn't change anything." His pale eyes have narrowed, but there's something else in them. They're like a wounded animal's-a mixture of anger and fear. Mary shuts her mouth and looks at him.

"I'm sorry I read them. I really am. You're right-they belong to John."

Sherlock nods slightly and lets her hand drop. "No one is going to take him away from me," he says quietly.

Mary nods before hurrying out. "No one."

oOo

Dear John,

Turns out I _was _sick. Sorry about that.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

It was typhoid fever, in case you were wondering. I really am much better, though. Mary and I have struck up an odd acquaintance; she seemed intolerably boring at first, but I guess you'd want me to give her a chance. She read the notebook, which was irritating, especially the terrible job she did of hiding it. But I'm…she seemed to understand, John.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I've been here for a year and a week now.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I'm wondering what the point of all these letters are. To keep me sane, I suppose, but then again I got in here for supposedly being "Not all there." I don't know.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

So Victor _is _engaged, then. I suppose I'm not above making mistakes yet. You would have laughed at me and made me go to the wedding. I wasn't invited, but as I'll be in here anyway when it takes place, it was for the best. Less waste of ink and paper.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

There was a movie playing today when I came to lunch. Some Bond film-I remember you like him. I think the movie was Goldfinger. I stayed and watched it for you; the plot was entirely predictable but the woman wasn't as cliché as I had expected. It felt like you, John. I could see it so easily as something you'd love.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

It's storming outside today; all these things coming together. Humidity, excess water, heat…all these chemicals raining down around us. There's a family with a home close to here-they have a garden in the back yard. They must be so happy about a downpour of water droplets. Isn't it funny, John, how the smallest things affect us?

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

Fresh fruit came in today. I haven't been eating much. I'm sorry.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

Do you have any idea what a mess I am? I _am, _and you love me anyway.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry.

oOo

Dear John,

I've been trying to eat more for you. But I can't seem to get it down. I don't _want _to eat, John! Food is ridiculous.

You'd tell me that _I _am being ridiculous right now.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

It's our two-year anniversary. I had lunch today in celebration. I hope that, wherever you are, you are so happy. Look at me-I'm getting so sentimental. Ugh.

Yours,

Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

It's June now and I try to go outside every day. John, I swear, all this fresh air will kill me.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I got a glass of iced-tea today. Mary made some for us; for every person here. It was rather a waste since half of them either didn't want it or seemed to be diabetic. I drank two glasses, and she seemed grateful. I noticed she isn't wearing her necklace anymore. The cousin's obviously shipped off, and I told her I was glad of it. She didn't give me any more tea after that. People and their sore spots, John.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I told one of the new staff members, Jerry, that his receding hairline was due to his extra poundage. And now it would seem my room isn't getting cleaned today. Was that irritation at my observation, you think, or knowing beforehand that I was right? I'm not the best person for subtlety, I suppose. But then, you aren't very subtle either, John. It took me awhile to see it but it was pretty obvious the whole time.

-Sherlock

oOo


	3. Chapter 3

oOo

Part Three:

_So much to tell you- and most of all goodbye,_

_But I know that you can't hear me anymore._

_It's so loud inside my head,_

_With words that I should have said,_

_And as I drown in my regrets,_

_I can't take back the words I never said. _

(-Words, Skylar Grey)

oOo

Dear John,

Mycroft brought me a few books-one addressing the growth of AIDS in our society, one about recent Scientific dilemmas, and one about how Pharmacies and Sciences relate. A redundant title as Pharmaceutics _is _a science, but still. They provide entertainment at a recreational level, but it's annoying because I can't try any of the experiments. Well, I did try one, but you don't want to know how it turned out.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

Mycroft has started coming more regularly. His latest diet has clearly failed-is he putting on weight again?

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I'm realizing more and more that I _never _tell you I love you. And I do-it hurts how much. But I hope that I'm showing it, because I never really had your way with "talking things out".

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I _did _say I loved you, didn't I? I love you.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I talked more with Mary today-she's an only child. I wonder what it would be like to be just me, with no Mycroft, or even Sherringford, though I don't see him now. I'd do everything on my own; get every privilege and every responsibility to bear on my own. I could also experiment without a sibling to be bothered by it, too…Perhaps, like everything, it has its perks and drawbacks.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

The plumb I ate today had two pits. I've never seen that before, John. I kept it, (the staff here are pathetic when it comes to searching the patients; I could bring all manner of things and they'd never notice,) and it looks like they're melded together in this hourglass-shaped lump. It's interesting. If I planted it, and it sprouted, do you think I'd get two sprouts or one?

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

In one month I'll have been here two years. The notebook is almost filled up, but I feel like I haven't even written that much…maybe because there's always too much to say.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

Maybe a letter a week with do, with the space I have left. I finished my last book yesterday that Mycroft gave me. Now I just have my experiments to plan. I still have a whole year to go…ugh. I am so utterly bored.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

I've developed an interesting idea. I'll take an idea, or a memory, or an image of something, and I'll try to store it in my mind so that I won't forget. It's still in its early stages, but I have hope.

I call it my Mind Palace.

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

It's a Tuesday and they're serving pork wrapped up in this bread stuff called a "Poke." Why on earth would they call it that?

-Sherlock

oOo

Dear John,

This is hard. So very, very hard.

oOo

Dear John,

It's getting harder and harder to cope with the fact that you aren't coming back. I used to think that if you left me, I wouldn't know what to do with myself. I thought that maybe even you'd hate me so much that I wouldn't want to do anything with myself. Death is not something to be feared, when the time comes. Of course, the trouble then was that I didn't know _what _time.

John you know and knew that I have always had trouble with expression my emotions, truly, before you there was no one I wanted to express them to. I wondered if it mattered at all, because although I'm loathe to use him as an example, Mycroft remains detached and his heart is unbroken. You broke my heart perfectly, John, even though, of course, it is not actually my _heart _that you broke. Remember that mirror you'd keep above our bedside table, and you'd look into it every morning to make sure your hair was neat and your teeth were clean? And, that one day, I accidentally broke it with an attempt at refraction shooting. I was so worried that you would be angry with me, that you wouldn't sleep with me that night or even maybe the one after that. I was almost crying when you came up the stairs but pretending not to. But you saw through me, John, didn't you, because you always do. You made me show you upstairs, and then when I held out one of the fragments of glass you laughed, and then you saw that my hand was bleeding from one of the shards. For God's sake, you were a doctor, you might have noticed a little earlier. But you got out your kit and bandaged it, and every time I'd grumble about the pain you kissed me, so I complained quite a lot. I don't think you really minded. I'm using this analogy because my heart is not like the mirror, my head is. My mind is in a thousand places at once and all of them, at this moment, converge on you.

To end that memory on a happier note because I feel certain it's what you would have wanted, you fixed my hand, and then you took me to bed and it was so glorious, John. I wish you could see through my eyes and look up at yourself through them, and feel how utterly I adored you. How I still adore you. And after, you held me tightly against your chest and told me how you loved me over and over, and John…I don't think I've ever been happier in my entire life than I was then. I wanted us to drown together in how I felt, to hold you like a weight until we both sank, and never let me go.

I want you, John, every day as badly as I did then.

I miss you so much.

-Sherlock

oOo

Sherlock sits fiddling with his notebook, the pen hanging idly in his long, slender fingers. He's barely eaten this week and he notes with distaste that his hands shake slightly. John always had such steady hands, he remembers. He would make a brilliant doctor.

He sits curled up on his bed, staring at the notebook lodged at his feet.

_I don't know what I'm doing. _

oOo

**Only the epilogue left, now!**


	4. Chapter 4

oOo

Part Four:

Epilogue

_I never really thought that you'd come tonight,_

_While the ground hangs heavy on either side,_

_Give me one last kiss,_

_While we're far too young to die._

_Far too young to die._

(-Far Too Young to Die, Panic! At the Disco)

oOo

**Notes: Guys, I beg you to forgive me for not updating sooner. I hope this chapter makes up for it!**

**oOo**

Sherlock sits fiddling with his notebook, the pen hanging idly in his long, slender fingers. He's barely eaten this week and he notes with distaste that his hands shake slightly. John always had such steady hands, he remembers. He would make a brilliant doctor.

He sits curled up on his bed, staring at the notebook lodged at his feet.

_I don't know what I'm doing._

Mary has come in on multiple occasions, trying to get him to eat food.

_Why do you care?! _He'd shouted the last time she showed up.

He tried to ignore the look of hurt on her face as she left, leaving the sandwich on its plate.

One page.

There's only one blank page in the notebook left now. Sherlock's unsure what to do with it. He has eleven months left on his sentence and only enough space to write eleven sentences on this one…last…page.

He's at least decided that he _will _apologize. Not because he wants too, but he figures that since he won't be able to write for John anymore, he can still do things that would make John happy.

_John._

The word always provoked so many feelings. Grief. Guilt. Love, yes. And happiness. Despite the terrible things he had done to him, he had still gotten many happy memories with his John.

But they all feel so _tainted _now. He thinks of one of his favourite memories; letting John drive the Pirate, his arms wrapped tightly around his waist. And that had been good. It really had been so good. But memories did very little, in the long run of things. They just refreshed pain he'd rather forget.

He did intend to apologize to Mary. Really. But if he let her come back, then she'd want him to _eat_, which would involve _getting up, _which would be an annoying inconvenience.

_Dear John._

The word hung above his last blank sheet of paper. But he could think of nothing to say. It felt like saying Goodbye again, and the first one nearly broke him.

_Dear John._

_I miss you, _he could write, but he'd said that already. _I love you, _but he feels it constantly, which makes it redundant. It feels like everything he wants to say would be overused, oversimplified and positively cliché. _I love you _was the only phrase he'd ever found that could never be clichéd somehow, but it was only one.

He's startled out of his reverie by the click of the door; Mary's returned. He sits up, ready to make his apology, but the look of nervous excitement she's putting out stills him.

"What is it?" The question tears out of him before he can stop it.

Her hands flutter excitedly. "There's someone here to see you!"

The feeling of nervousness vanishes. "Oh." Sherlock grunts. "Mycroft?"

"Him and someone else. Didn't get the gentleman's name."

"Oh, that's probably his assistant Harry. He has a meeting today," Sherlock murmurs getting up.

His limbs are paler and he's noticeably thinner, Mary observes as she leads him out. Definitely needs to eat more.

The visiting room is quiet; a few people are talking in hushed voices. Sherlock's pale eyes sweep over the room, finally alighting on his older brother. Where's Harry? Mycroft is definitely speaking to someone, but it's too short to be Harry.

Sherlock takes a step forward. Then another. And another. His fingers flex blindly.

Mycroft turns around, his face more cheerful than Sherlock's ever seen it before.

"Well now, little brother. Ready to go back to the real world?"

Sherlock does not hear him. His eyes are fixed on the figure beside him. A little taller, leaner and harder, but that doesn't matter…it doesn't matter at all. Because _John _is here. And his eyes are so _blue_, and so _nervous_, and he says his name and Sherlock jerks forward blindly.

"John."

And his arms are wrapped _so _tightly around him, and he's _warm _and _real _and _alive. And he is mine and oh God, he is alive, _and John is crying.

"Sherlock," His voice is choked. "Sherlock I _missed _you."

It might be from the lack of food lately, or exhaustion, or excitement, but whatever the reason, Sherlock thinks he might faint. And that would be thoroughly undignified. He still hasn't let John go, in fact, after this, he doubts as to whether he'll ever let him go again.

"John," He whispers again, breathing in his smell, and taking in his heartbeat, and the softness of his hair.

John closes his eyes and leans into his arms, ignoring the fact that Mycroft is standing there awkwardly.

"Well." He clears his throat. "You'll be leaving tomorrow, Sherlock. But John insisted on saying Hello."

John leans up and kisses him, right there in that room. There's none of his old shyness, or fear of being seen in it. He's purposeful and has to lean on his tiptoes to kiss him. Sherlock adores it.

"Do you have anything in need of packing?" Mycroft inquires.

Sherlock shakes his head. "Just my notebook," he murmurs.

John's hands gently travel to his waist. "You're so thin," he says softly.

Sherlock just holds him tighter. "I'm sorry…"

Mycroft sighs. "Are you going to hold each other all day?"

"Yes," they both answer simultaneously.

Sherlock's older brother rolls his eyes. "I'm not sure this facility will approve."

"But I need answers." Sherlock glances down at John. "H-how…I watched you die. Well and truly snuff it."

John smiles at his terminology. "I had some help."

Mycroft nods in agreement. "And we'll explain, brother mine, when we come back tomorrow."

"You'll come back?" The desperate hopefulness in his face makes John blink suddenly.

"Of course I'm coming back," He says gently, his thumbs brushing Sherlock's cheeks.

He doesn't stop looking at Sherlock until he's out of the room.

"Mary?" Sherlock calls, trying not to sway.

She hurries into the room. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"I might take you up on that sandwich now."

oOo


End file.
